


The Nature of Humanity and Badass Spaceships (Anyone Else But You)

by acchikocchi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:32:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The thing was, Álvaro had kind of made a point of never sleeping with teammates, just to be on the safe side — he'd seen that go wrong and it wasn't pretty. But Raúl was different: he was Álvaro's friend first.</i></p><p>(or, the 2010-2011 season as narrated by Álvaro Arbeloa.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Humanity and Badass Spaceships (Anyone Else But You)

It started, a couple months into the season, because they were roommates.

At least, Álvaro was pretty sure that was the reason. The thing was, he didn't actually remember all the details. It wasn't like he completely blacked out or anything, but there had definitely been some alcohol involved. The important thing was that it was first away trip after Raúl came back from his injury, overnighting in Málaga after the late match, when Álvaro woke up with his face mashed into the sheets and his jeans around his knees and his head pounding like a jackhammer. He rolled over with a groan and there was Raúl sprawled out next to him, fast asleep, with a dark purplish mark on his collarbone.

Álvaro had a moment to try and kick his brain back into gear before he was prompted by a flash of memory: one leg slung over Raúl's and a big hand practically groping his ass and another pushing his shirt up his back and his own yanking open Raúl's jeans. And, okay, that was different, but not bad. After all, it wasn't like Raúl was hideous or anything.

As Álvaro debated whether or not to wake Raúl up, Raúl's arm stretched out and flopped around until his hand finally settled on Álvaro's lower back.

"Stop groping me," Álvaro said.

One eye opened. "Oh," Raúl said. "That was you? I was _thinking_ I'd had better."

"Not that you haven't paid for," Álvaro shot back. Raúl snickered. Álvaro sat up — ow, his head hurt — swung his legs over the side of the bed, and said, "Dibs on the shower."

As he crossed the room there was a rustling sound behind him, like Raúl was sitting up. "Hey, Álvaro," Raúl said, sounding serious, so Álvaro turned around, even though he never trusted Raúl's serious voice.

Raúl looked him in the eye and said solemnly, "Don't twitter this." Then he snickered.

" _Tweet_ ," Álvaro said, "tweet, you Luddite." He threw a towel at Raúl's head. Raúl, still laughing at his own awful sense of humor, rolled out of bed and stole the shower, filthy cheater that he was, and that was that.

* * *

Or at least Álvaro assumed it was. He vaguely wished he remembered more; it must have been interesting. It wasn't like he hadn't had more than a few similar experiences over the years, but it hadn't happened for a while, and they really, really hadn't been anything like Raúl.

But then not even two weeks later, away against Murcia for the Copa, he'd barely closed the door to the hotel room before Raúl fucking _pounced_ on him. Álvaro got an arm around Raúl's shoulders to give himself a little leverage — why was Raúl so fucking tall — and Raúl heaved him up with a hand under his thigh and Álvaro wrapped a leg around Raúl's waist and somehow it ended up with Raúl fucking him up against the door and, holy shit, that was good.

"Okay," Álvaro said when his breathing started to return to normal, still more or less wrapped around Raúl, "that wasn't such a bad idea, I'll give you that one."

Raúl made a smug noise into the side of Álvaro's neck. It tickled. Álvaro smacked the back of his head and Raúl let Álvaro down. "You want to try next time?" he said.

Álvaro's brain short-circuited.

But it turned out they didn't get around to it next time, because Raúl had been looked so fucking satisfied with himself all week — he was the only person in the world that could look smug and goofy at the same time, Álvaro was sure of it — that Álvaro thought it was about time someone wiped that grin off his face, to hell with waiting for the next away trip, and ended up sucking Raúl off on the tiled bathroom floor during the next concentration. Raúl's reaction was awfully satisfying. Then when Álvaro sat back, wiping at his mouth and feeling pretty damn smug himself, Raúl struggled upright, manhandled Álvaro to the floor and returned the favor. He was maybe slightly clumsier but he knew what he was doing and Álvaro was pulling at his hair and saying he didn't even know what and in the end Raúl was looking smug again after all.

So then it had to happen again, and again, and after a while Álvaro started to think of it as a regular thing.

He didn't realize exactly how regular until Raúl got himself suspended for their trip to Gijón and they put Álvaro with Canales instead. Canales was still new enough that Álvaro felt some fleeting sense of responsibility, so he took the kid down to where Ramos was staging an illicit poker tournament and then stuck around himself, since he didn't have anything better to do. It actually wasn't that bad, even in spite of Ramos' blatant cheating. It was just about a million miles away from the tendons of Raúl's braced arms and Raúl's sloppy mouth and Raúl's stubble scraping his neck and —

Shit. "Be right back," he said to no one in particular, and got back to his room in record time. He jerked off thinking of Raúl curled against his back, Raúl's big hands holding his hips against the counter, Raúl's deep voice in his ear, and came in about two seconds, so hard his vision whited out.

So that was probably a sign.

* * *

The thing was, Álvaro had kind of made a point of never sleeping with teammates, just to be on the safe side — he'd seen that go wrong and it wasn't pretty. But Raúl was different: he was Álvaro's friend first. Which already set him apart from the guys Álvaro had hooked up with in the past, who tended to be nice, soft-spoken, basically harmless. Raúl was definitely a nice guy at heart, but that was about as far as that went.

Then there was the height thing. Álvaro was used to being the instigator and the one in control; he was _not_ used to having someone else so big they could get him down and hold him there. But to his own interest he seemed to — well. Not hate it. Like when Raúl was pinning both of his wrists against the bed and Álvaro cursed at him and bucked upwards and still couldn't shake Raúl. That... wasn't bad. Trying to pin Raúl, and straddling him while Raúl growled when he suceeded, was even better.

That was information about himself that Álvaro filed away to examine later.

The point was, a little to his own surprise, it turned out that sometimes it was actually really nice to be sleeping with someone who appreciated what happened out on the field. Like about six weeks after the first time, when they were away to Ajax: when Ronaldo's free kick rebounded off some hapless player straight to Álvaro and he saw an opening and purely on instinct pulled back and belted it toward the net and suddenly everyone was mobbing him because holy fuck that was a goal.

Of course then Xabi and Ramos collected their pair of intentional send offs and the stadium descended into uproar and everyone else forgot about it, but Álvaro didn't, because he'd just scored in the fucking _Champions' League_. Raúl didn't either. He collared Álvaro back at the hotel, as soon as they were out of there, scrubbing a hand over Álvaro's hair. "Álvarito! You're a striker, too!"

"Get off of me," Álvaro said, knowing he wasn't even coming close to disguising his delight, so it wasn't a surprise when Raúl just grinned and pulled him into a headlock-slash-hug instead. It was a surprise when Raúl then hauled him up and kissed him.

That — was actually exactly what Álvaro was looking for. He answered enthusiastically, fisting both hands in the back of Raúl's shirt, and Raúl pushed him down and went to town with his mouth until in the end Álvaro was flat on his back seeing stars, or possibly just too exhausted to move.

After a while, Raúl reached out and began to massage the back of Álvaro's neck with one hand, which felt really, really good. Álvaro's eyes rolled up in his head and his brain went on vacation.

He must have made a noise, because Raúl laughed under his breath. "Good?"

"Marry me," Álvaro said.

"What should I get you to promise as long as you're at my mercy," Raúl mused.

"Whatever you want," Álvaro said. "Nngh."

Raúl's grin turned into a leer. Álvaro rolled his eyes, or tried to. Raúl tugged on his shoulder, first lightly, then, when Álvaro didn't respond, more insistently, until Álvaro sat up. Raúl hauled him forward until he was straddling Raúl, sandwiched between Raúl's chest and the arm braced against his back. Raúl managed to wrap one of his stupidly large hands — those hands again — around both their dicks and they were both slick with sweat and Raúl was making these _noises_ under his breath, deep and hoarse and breathless, and fuck, Álvaro just wanted to —

The orgasm wiped out his thoughts. Gradually, he became aware that he was lying half-sprawled on top of Raúl, still, and that Raúl's hand was kneading up and down his spine.

"You should score more," Raúl said. His chest vibrated under Álvaro's cheek.

"Okay," Álvaro agreed, dazed.

It was nice having Raúl around the next week, too, after the Clásico. By the time it was over it was too late for them to go back to Madrid, so they were stuck in a hotel in fucking Barcelona and Álvaro couldn't take out his feelings on anything.

Raúl never stayed upset as long as Álvaro did; he had a dangerously short fuse on the field, but once it was over, it was over, whereas Álvaro liked to stew his own irritation for the rest of the day, or week, or possibly month. This time, though, neither of them could muster anything other than a sort of dull disbelief. They just sat in the hotel room, staring at each other, until Álvaro said, "Want to fuck?" and Raúl nearly smothered him.

The malaise still hadn't gone away when they got back to Madrid the next day. Raúl trailed Álvaro home, because they'd done that after some of their losses last season, gotten some of the violent impulses out with a good session of Tekken or Halo. But this time —

It wasn't awkward, exactly, because they knew each other too well for that, but there were a few moments, like when Raúl caught his eye, or when he reached for something without looking and got Raúl instead: things that would have been innocuous before, that now... It was just different. At least until Álvaro started to get up and unthinkingly reached out to push himself up using Raúl's shoulder. Raúl turned to look at him and suddenly Álvaro couldn't look away.

Raúl licked his lips. "Hey," he said, "do you mind if — "

"No," Álvaro said, before he could even finish the sentence, and Raúl tackled him.

So after that it just happened whenever, match or no match, and Álvaro was actually pretty fine with that, too.

There were a few disadvantages, to be completely fair. For one, Raúl had a tendency to roll over in the middle of the night, grab the nearest thing at hand and clutch it like a teddy bear, which was funny when it was a pillow and less funny when it was Álvaro. Álvaro inevitably woke up sweating, not in a good way, from dreams of being crushed to death by iron robots. One time, though, he woke up and Raúl just had one arm slung diagonally across his chest, breathing steady and even. That had been okay. Nice, even. Any night the hotel thermostat was too hard to figure out was pretty nice, too, because Raúl was like a human furnace.

("I feel used," Raúl said in Zaragoza, as Álvaro dug into his side.

"Very observant," Álvaro said. "That's because I'm using you. You're basically my personal heater now, deal with it."

"That's all?" Raúl said, not doing a very good job of not laughing, as usual. "Just for the heat?" He waggled his eyebrows in a supremely ridiculous manner.

"Yeah, sorry," Álvaro said, "You're okay at the rest of it but I'm mostly just trying to build your ego. My bad."

Álvaro was getting very familiar with the grin on Raúl's face right now. "Oh yeah? Then you must not be interested in using me for anything else, huh."

"Nope," Álvaro said. "Sorry. Guess you'll have to jerk off alone toni— " Raúl pounced, and Álvaro never did finish what he was saying.)

Second, Raúl's dorky sense of humor and really awful puns were at least twice as bad when they were related to sex, which was often. Third —

A hand plucked Álvaro's reading glasses away. "Whatcha reading?"

Third, he never let you read in peace.

"A book," Álvaro said. "If you're familiar with those."

Raúl squinted at the cover. " _Game of Thrones_ ," he read aloud. "Never heard of it."

"They're making it into a TV series," Álvaro said. "I might let you watch it with me if you give back my glasses."

"Huh," Raúl said. "What's it about?"

"Intrigue, magic, creepy sibling relationships. Lots of medieval violence, you'll like that part."

"Oh," Raúl said, nodding wisely, "like Ring of the Lords?"

" _Lord of the Rings_ ," Álvaro said, "and I know you're fucking with me."

"That's what happens to nerds," Raúl said, "they get picked on." He thumped down on the couch next to Álvaro.

Álvaro eyed him. "You really want to compare which of us got picked on more?"

"People liked me," Raúl said. "I was funny. And athletic."

"You were an overgrown beanpole with an embarrassing sense of humor."

Raúl ignored him. "It's okay," he said. "Nerds are sexy this year. I saw it in a magazine."

Álvaro gave him a flat look. Raúl snickered.

"At least I know — "

" — that kangaroos don't live in Austria," Raúl recited along with him. "So do I. Now."

"Besides," Álvaro said, "I can pretend to act however I want. You can't do anything about the height."

"No, you're always a nerd," Raúl corrected. "What was that show called, Battle — Battlemoon — "

"Battlestar Galactica," Álvaro said, "which was a great work of cinema, thank you very much."

"It was about robots," Raúl said. "And spaceships."

"It was about the nature of humanity," Álvaro said, " _and_ badass spaceships, so you can suck it."

The resolution to that was fairly predictable.

The league went on, and they kept winning, and he and Raúl kept fucking. It wasn't really that different from before: Raúl practically lived at his place and he at Raúl's, anyway, so all it meant was that Álvaro got laid a lot more frequently than he used to. (He was coming to the conclusion that he'd never given enough weight to the advantages of sheer proximity before.) He didn't really bother wondering how long they'd keep doing it, or why exactly it was happening in the first place. He didn't have to, because that was the nice thing about sleeping with Raúl: they were always on the same wavelength about more or less everything.

Almería was the first hiccup. Sometimes it just happened that way, Álvaro knew — but they couldn't afford that, not this season. A draw wasn't good enough. Esteban said as much, after the match: of course they weren't satisfied. They were Real Madrid.

So they'd do better next time. They were only four points down. They could do it.

They had the next run of Copa matches to concentrate on, anyway, and they were going to make that final come hell or high water. They made it past Atletico, which was particularly satisfying, and then they went to Sevilla for the quarters and for a minute it looked like everything was going to go horribly wrong.

Álvaro saw it too late: all three of them, he and Raúl and Carvalho, caught out of position, Fabiano clear, fooling Iker into a dive and two feet away from the goal and shit, no one was going to get there in time. An equalizer, going into the half —

And then Raúl, incredibly, went sliding across the mouth of the goal just in time to tackle the ball away, and then scrambled with his impossibly long legs to kick it out again as it rolled back across the line.

Álvaro immediately looked toward the linesman —

— and the flag stayed down.

He'd never been so grateful for Raúl's ridiculous height in his life. He and Ramos both whooped; Raúl was grinning fiercely, collecting high-fives from everyone on their side of the field. Seconds later, the whistle blew for half.

Álvaro got off the field as fast as he could and went straight for the dressing room. He didn't make it all the way; he saw Raúl up ahead in the corridor. Álvaro said his name aloud. Raúl turned.

Álvaro didn't even bother with subtlety. He marched up to Raúl, wrapped both hands in his collar and yanked his head down until their foreheads touched. Raúl's hands had already found his hips. He heard voices approaching; he should let go, but he didn't. Raúl stared at him hungrily, pupils huge and dark, and licked his lips. It was all Álvaro could do not to maul him right there.

"Wait," he said instead in a low, urgent voice. "Just _wait_."

"Fuck," Raúl said, a low growl. "Álvaro — "

"Chori!" Ramos' voice crowed and Álvaro released Raúl like a hot iron.

The second half was a blur. It seemed like an ice age before they'd cleaned up and packed up and loaded themselves on the bus. Finally, _finally_ , he was back in the hotel, half-hard just thinking about what he was going to do to Raúl, who wasn't even there yet, and — He heard footsteps in the hall.

Raúl didn't knock, just came stumbling through the door, already looking for Álvaro, and Álvaro was right there on top of him. He shoved Raúl down on the bed and got Raúl's shirt out of the way, got his track pants down, practically tearing at them and not caring one bit. Raúl's big hands were reaching up, scrabbling at Álvaro's own clothes, but Álvaro didn't have attention to spare for anything besides getting his hands all over Raúl, mouth at Raúl's neck and shoulder and collarbone, doing his best to leave a mark, or several marks. Raúl kept trying to respond but Álvaro ignored him — barely noticed — and finally Raúl got the idea and just let Álvaro have his way, grasping his shoulders and urging him on, until first Raúl came and then Álvaro did, forehead pressed against Raúl's shoulder.

"Whoa," said Raúl, sounding happily dazed.

"Treble, here we come," Álvaro said, and kissed Raúl with teeth.

* * *

They lost to Osasuna three days later instead.

* * *

The loss was bad enough. But the press room was worse. Raúl had come off midway through the game, but Álvaro stayed in it until the bitter end, and was drafted for press duty.

 _Is it still realistically possible to catch up to Barcelona?_

 _Does this represent more than just three points?_

 _Will we look back on this match as the one that decided the league?_

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so angry. It hadn't subsided a single bit by the time they got back to Madrid, hours later. He went straight for his car — all he wanted was to get the hell out of there as soon as possible — when someone caught his arm and Raúl's voice said, "I'm coming over."

Álvaro didn't know if this was Raúl his best friend or Raúl his frequent hook-up talking. He wasn't in the mood, either way, not to be nice or to fuck or do anything except tear something to pieces. But for some he reason he didn't say anything; he just let Raúl follow him to the car and all the way to his house, where he proceeded to wind up and throw his keys against the opposite wall as hard as he could.

But Raúl didn't seem to expect anything. He just made himself comfortable on Álvaro's leather couch and let Álvaro pace furiously around the house, pausing to let loose a string of expletives or kick a chair, and watched Álvaro with dark eyes.

"I hate it," Álvaro spat eventually when swearing wasn't enough. "Acting like this is the goddamned — it's fucking January! What the hell do they mean, is it over? Of course it's not over. It's not over and we're going to _win_ it."

Raúl made a noise of acknowledgement.

"We'll do it," Álvaro said. "I'll do it all myself if I have to. But if the fucking media had their way we wouldn't even have to bother playing the rest of the season! God _damn_ it!"

Raúl was still just watching him. His stillness was suddenly infuriating and Álvaro whirled on him and demanded, "Does anything get you upset?"

Which was a stupid question, because he'd seen what did (as if he'd ever forget the hospital in Potchefstroom), and it was things that were more important than dropping a couple stupid points. Raúl didn't seem to mind, though. He just shrugged and said, "You said it's not over yet. That's right. So I shouldn't get upset."

Sometimes Raúl's generally easygoing nature was really nice, and sometimes it was a pain in the ass. Nevertheless, some of Álvaro's anger seemed to drain away in the face of its mild implacability. "Come on," Raúl went on. "You better think about something else for a while."

"Yeah, right," Álvaro muttered.

Then Raúl said, coaxingly, "I'll watch Star Wars with you."

That was just playing dirty.

Álvaro tried to hold out. He lasted about thirty seconds. "Fine," he grumbled, trying to sound more reluctant. "But only if it's the original version."

"Sure," Raúl agreed. "Whatever you want."

"Because they fucked up the re-edit. Don't even get me started on the prequels."

"Uh-huh," Raúl said. "Do you have any vodka?"

"Top cupboard," Álvaro said. "You know what's wrong with Lucas' epic vision or what the fuck ever?"

"Yeah, but you can tell me anyway," Raúl said, so Álvaro did.

Several hours and several shots later, wrath blunted by the combined effects of alcohol and the Force, Álvaro was finding it difficult to explain what seemed perfectly obvious to him.

"Of course I would be Han, hello."

"No way," Raúl said. "I'm taller. And more badass."

"You're not witty enough," Álvaro said. "You can be..." He squinted at Raúl. "Luke, I guess."

Raúl wrinkled his nose. "I'm cooler than Luke."

"No," Álvaro said, "see, what you did with Sevilla. That was like. Using the Force."

"Actually," Raúl said confidingly, "I think it might have crossed the line. I'm not really sure."

"Aha," Álvaro said. "You're being tempted to the Dark Side." He paused, then said, "You still have to be Luke."

"Why?" Raúl protested.

"Because they're best friends, too," Álvaro said.

There was a moment of silence, before Raúl said, " _Awww._ " He was grinning drunkenly at Álvaro. Álvaro rolled his eyes.

Then Raúl leaned over and kissed him, just a kiss, slow, no groping, no demands. It went on for a long time.

When they separated, Álvaro blinked. "That was weird."

"Yeah," said Raúl.

"Do it again."

So Raúl did, and for a while they just made out, all tongue and and sometimes a little bit of teeth. It felt pretty good. Really good.

Then Raúl said helpfully, "You could be Leia," and Álvaro had to smother him with a pillow.

Two weeks later Barcelona dropped points, too, and Álvaro felt a sudden and not-so-inexplicable surge of goodwill towards all and sundry. They could do it. He refused to accept anything else.

They slipped again, but so did Barcelona. They made up for it: Sevilla, and into the Cup final; Espanyol, down not just a man but their captain and starting keeper; Malaga, seven goals to nothing. Lyon, and passage to the first Champions League quarterfinals in six years.

So it just figured that that was when everything started to get weird.

* * *

In retrospect, it was funny that he'd never stopped to wonder before. He just assumed that Raúl was in more or less the same boat he was, because he'd never heard any rumors like he had about some of the guys (and there were some things you just knew, if you played), but the evidence definitely seemed to speak for itself.

It was probably a couple days after Lyon when he showed up early for training, along with Esteban. Ronaldo was in the weight room already, doing crunches, but neither of them were crazy people, so they went over to the basketball court to shoot hoops instead. (Playoffs began in a month — Álvaro had his doubts about the Lakers this year, but he'd already made a deal with the sports gods: get Real a trophy and they could do whatever they wanted to the rest of his teams.)

"You think he goes home at night?" Álvaro said, nodding in the direction of the weight room.

"Sure," Esteban said. "He can do crunches at home, too."

"Bet he does them in his sleep. Crunches all night long." He watched Esteban set himself up for the shot. "Think we should do more?"

Esteban sunk a perfect three-pointer. He was kind of a freak like that. "I don't think your mother would care."

"No, but yours told me she would," Álvaro said, and ducked as Esteban winged the ball at his head.

"I think that was uncalled for," Esteban said meaningfully, "after all the patience I've had."

Álvaro gave him a blank look.

Esteban raised his eyebrows and said, "When I can tell you're hooking up with someone you aren't telling me about."

Álvaro cracked up. "Wow," he said, "you know you're incredibly shameless, right?"

"I like to be informed," Esteban said tranquilly.

"Uh-huh," Álvaro said. He thought about it for a second and decided he didn't really care if Esteban knew. "It's not, you know, a thing. It's just Raúl." He took a shot and the ball clanged off the rim. "Damn."

He turned to see Esteban staring at him.

"What?" Álvaro said.

"You're sleeping with _Raúl_?" On the name, Esteban's voice cracked.

Álvaro shrugged. "Well, sometimes. What? It's not like we're dating or any — oh for God's sake." As Esteban's face got progressively more disbelieving, Álvaro got it and said, "Not that Raúl, Jesus. M— you know, the other one. Albiol." My Raúl, he'd almost said, which was definitely the wrong phrasing to use in this context.

"Oh," Esteban said, sounding unmistakably disappointed. Álvaro's hackles rose. It must have shown, because Esteban said defensively, "I was just wondering, okay?"

"Wondering what?"

"What it would be like," Esteban said. "You know. With... the captain."

"First of all, it's not healthy to keep calling him that, and second, it can't be that hard to find out," Álvaro said, still feeling unusually prickly. "Even for him I bet it wouldn't take too much asking to find someone who — okay, you know what, I didn't come here to talk about that Raúl."

"Your Raúl, right?" Esteban said, with a perfectly implicit smirk, and damn him for actually paying attention.

"Whatever," Álvaro said. "It's just a thing sometimes. We're friends, it happens."

"So are we," Esteban said, "and I haven't noticed any sudden conjugal surprises."

"Your loss," Álvaro said, grinning, and Esteban just rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, though," Esteban said after a second. "Albiol? Really?"

Álvaro shrugged. "Why not?" He took in Esteban's expression and narrowed his eyes. "What? You know something I don't?"

Esteban shrugged. "Ask Silva."

"Silva?" said Álvaro.

* * *

There was a click on the other end of the line. "Hello?"

"Silva, hey," Álvaro said, "it's Álvaro Arbeloa."

There was a long silence, then Silva said, sounding more confused than Álvaro thought the introduction warranted, "Arbeloa?"

"Yeah, look, I've got a really quick question for you. It's about Albiol. Raúl. You guys used to hook up, right?"

There was a thud on the other end, like something hitting the floor, as Silva said in a higher voice, "What?"

"I'm not judging," Álvaro said. "I wouldn't call to mess with you. Or just to mess with you, anyway. I just wanted to check."

"What?" Silva repeated faintly. "Why..."

Álvaro shrugged, not that Silva could see him, and said with a casualness that was not entirely genuine, "It's relevant information. Thought I should ask."

"Are you — " Silva stopped. There was a long silence, then he said tentatively, "Are you asking for — for advice?"

Álvaro's jaw dropped. " _No_ ," he said, "what makes you think — " He stopped. "You know what, sorry, I've got another call coming in, gotta go. I'll call you back later, okay?" There was a tinny sound from the receiver — Silva's voice — as Álvaro ended the call.

His phone buzzed, a minute later.

 _I don't think you have much to worry about._

It figured that Silva would text in complete sentences. Álvaro shoved his phone in his pocket and decided to ignore it for the rest of the day.

* * *

"Okay," he said without preamble when Silva picked up again two hours later. "Yes. Yes, I am calling you for advice."

"Oh," Silva said, after a long, startled pause. "Um. I don't... um."

More silence. Álvaro said, "Look, did you guys used to sleep together or not?"

"I, ah, we." He could practically hear Silva reddening all the way over the phone line. "We were, um. It wasn't exactly..."

As Silva floundered, Álvaro felt an irrational prick of irritation. "So that's a yes," he said.

"We were teenagers," Silva said, with an effort at equilibrium, "in an all boys' football academy. There was some. You know." Álvaro could hear him squirm. "Experimentation. I actually... kind of thought... it didn't stick for Raúl."

One, something deep inside Álvaro didn't like the sound of Silva calling Raúl by his first name, and two, what the fuck? "What the fuck?" he said aloud.

"I mean... we stayed friends, of course. But it was just for a couple months, and after that Raúl never seemed to be. Interested. Like that."

"But it stuck for you," Álvaro said, and Silva said, with an edge, "I don't think that's any of your business."

Álvaro always forgot how Silva's temper flared, and this time he probably deserved it, too. "I know, I know," he said. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Silva said. For a second, he sounded very tired. Then he said briskly, "Anyway, obviously I was wrong about Raúl. I'm sorry, I don't know if there's anything much I can say, other than as a friend."

"That's okay," Álvaro said, "that helped. I think." It gave him plenty to think about, at least.

"Raúl's a good person," Silva said. "He wouldn't..." He trailed off, and then said, "Raúl's very sincere."

"Yeah, I know that," Álvaro said — he did know both of those things, just fine — and for some reason Silva made an amused sound.

"Then you're all set," he said, and added, with an undercurrent of mischief lurking in his voice, "Good luck."

To Álvaro's mortification, he felt a flush of heat at the back of his neck. What the hell, he never blushed. "Shut up," he said, maturely, and Silva's laugh, at least, sounded genuine as the call ended.

* * *

It took Álvaro a while to catch his breath, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling until the stars went away and his heartbeat returned to normal. Then he rolled over.

Raúl was flopped over face-down into a pillow. His back glinted with sweat. "Hey," Álvaro said, poking him in the shoulder.

Raúl made a noise into the pillow.

" _Hey_ ," Álvaro said, and Raúl mumbled, "What?"

"Silva said he didn't think you were into guys."

This noise was surprised. "You talked to David?"

Álvaro made a face. "Yeah, I talked to _David_. I had to call him anyway. It came up."

For a minute he thought he'd gotten away with it, because Raúl wasn't the type to ask probing follow-up questions. Then Raúl said, voice muffled, "About what?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"What'd you call David about?"

Shit. Álvaro's brain scrambled for an answer before inspiration came in a flash. "Tips on Villa's weak spots. Clásico's coming up again, you know."

Raúl snorted with laughter into the pillow and didn't say anything else, so Álvaro counted that as a success. He waited another minute before returning to his line of questioning.

"So?" he prodded. "What's the deal?"

Raúl made another muffled noise and rolled over on his back. "I'm not, I guess. I wasn't. Not really."

"Then what's going on here?"

Raúl pushed himself up on his elbows. His eyes ran up and down the length of Álvaro's body, and then he grinned.

Álvaro's neck was heating up again. Seriously, what the fuck.

"I don't know how to tell you this," Raúl said solemnly, or as close as he could get, "but it's because I feel sorry for you. I know otherwise you wouldn't — " his voice wavered, " — wouldn't ever be able to get lai— "

He couldn't finish the sentence because he was laughing too hard. Álvaro almost smacked him, then thought better of it and grabbed a pillow instead. The thwack of feathers against his head only made Raúl laugh harder. Then Álvaro pounced, and then eventually they stopped laughing altogether.

The question wouldn't leave Álvaro alone, though. Álvaro refused to believe that one abortive summer of fooling around age sixteen left a guy as — competent — as Raúl. Unfortunately, the kind of time when it was natural for that to come to mind was also the kind of time his mouth had a tendency to run off without his brain's input. "Seriously," he said a couple days later, lying boneless and wrung-out on the sheets, "how did you get so — " He cut himself off, but it was too late.

"What?" Raúl said not-at-all innocently. "What was that?"

Álvaro thought about pretending he hadn't said anything, but he knew that would be useless, so he rolled his eyes and kicked at Raúl's calf. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Raúl was grinning so widely it took up his entire face. "Natural talent, I guess," he said. "If I'm just _that good_."

"You're that annoying," Álvaro said, "that's what you are. I don't know why I put up with you."

He could tell from Raúl's face that he was about to work some kind of innuendo into his response. Álvaro kicked at him again. "Don't even."

"Don't even what?" Raúl said, but his innocent face also fell woefully short of convincing.

"Seriously, though," Álvaro said a minute later. "Just Silva, are you sure?"

Raúl snorted. "I think I would remember." He tucked his hands behind his head and looked over at Álvaro. "I mean, what about you? You like girls."

Álvaro shrugged. "I like whoever's available." He never thought of it as experimenting, because he knew what he was interested in; it wasn't like he was looking for an answer. "I don't know, after I was promoted there were some guys, but I took a break when I went to England and never really picked it back up."

Raúl snickered. "Was it a hobby? Because that's what you're making it sound like."

"The point is," Álvaro said, ignoring him, "I at least had practice."

"Did you get merit badges?"

"Shut up."

Raúl was too busy snickering to himself to answer; Álvaro knew he was probably coming up with an entire classification system. All right, fine, the idea of a merit badge in cocksucking was pretty funny. He couldn't help a snort of laughter.

"Anyway," Raúl said a minute later, "since you think I'm so good — " Álvaro rolled his eyes again, " — why's it matter?"

Álvaro shrugged. "I don't know. It's just weird."

"Well," Raúl said reasonably, "then what made you start again?"

Álvaro opened his mouth and had nothing to say.

Raúl took in his expression and nodded understandingly. "That's okay, I know. I'm pretty irresistible."

"Hardly," Álvaro said witheringly. Raúl just laughed and tugged him over again.

The next weekend was another round of Euro qualifiers, which suddenly and abruptly broke up Álvaro's routine. Normally he liked international duty — now that Xabi was at Madrid most of the guys he hung out with were his club teammates anyway, but it was always pretty fun to get together as a group, even the guys he normally didn't get along with so well. He almost always roomed with Raúl, anyway, so it wasn't that different from normal.

What Álvaro wasn't really sure he'd noticed before was the amount of time Raúl spent hanging around his old teammates from Valencia, Villa and Mata and Marchena and Silva. Especially Silva.

He didn't see Raúl all day, outside of training sessions. It maybe made him a little more aggressive than usual when he finally did, back at the hotel, because afterward Raúl flopped over, eyes closed, and looked like he was going to fall asleep right there.

Álvaro almost let him. Almost.

"But really," he said. "Why?"

Raúl opened one eye. "What are you talki— _Álvaro_."

"Come on," Álvaro persisted. "There's got to be a reason."

Raúl groaned and put a pillow over his head. "I don't know."

"Well, you should! You started it."

" _You_ started it."

"I think I'd remember if I had."

The pillow vanished and revealed Raúl looking surprised. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't say that," Álvaro said. "I said I'd remember starting it, if I had, and I don't, so clearly I didn't."

Raúl's brow furrowed. He stared at Álvaro. Álvaro let out a huff of air and said, "The point is, it was definitely you."

Surprisingly, Raúl grinned. "I don't think so. _I_ remember what happened."

"Oh yeah?" Álvaro said, uncomfortably aware that the harder he tried to remember the less actually did. "So what was that then, oh enlightened one?"

"Well..." Raúl drew out the word and somehow infused it with the same insinuations as one of his stupid leers. "You got really drunk, but I didn't, because I was just back and I didn't want the mister to get mad at me — " here his sanctimonious tone made Álvaro snort out loud, " — and then you started to go on about how you were really happy I was back and then you got, like, really clingy. More than usual." Raúl paused. "And then you pretty much jumped me."

There was an uncomfortable prickling at the back of Álvaro's neck. He was afraid it might be a blush. "If — _if_ — that's true, why'd you go along with it?"

Raúl looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged. "I guess because you're hot."

"Damn straight," said Álvaro, and then, "Ha, so you admit it."

Raúl laughed disbelievingly into the covers. "Duh," he said. "I'm dumb, not blind."

"You should have more respect for yourself," Álvaro said piously, which made Raúl laugh more. (Which was good; self-awareness was a virtue but Álvaro didn't like it when Raúl said things like that, even jokingly. He was the only one allowed to pick on Raúl.)

"Can we get back to what we were doing now?" Raúl said plaintively.

Álvaro pretended to think about it. "I guess, if you want me that badly."

"Maybe I do," Raúl said.

Álvaro blinked. "What?"

If that was Raúl's game face he was doing a good job of faking it. But Álvaro always knew what Raúl was thinking. Shit.

Raúl grinned suddenly. "You're cute when you think too hard," he said, and what the _fuck_ , Álvaro was bright red all over. Raúl started laughing like a maniac. Álvaro slapped his own face, then punched Raúl in the shoulder.

"Bite me," he told Raúl, and Raúl said, "Okay."

There was only one league game to deal with back in Madrid before the Champions' League quarterfinals; as a matter of fact, in the anticipation, Álvaro had almost forgotten about it. Which was stupid, because it wasn't like Gijón were a cakewalk or anything, but it would be tough, not impossible, and they could handle it.

Only they didn't.

Álvaro didn't look at the press. He didn't think about it; he refused to. There were eight weeks left in the league. The first quarterfinal was in three days. He had to think about that instead.

As it turned out, they whipped Spurs four to nothing like a walk in the park and it was a beautiful night for everyone outside of north London. Álvaro didn't play and he didn't care. The semifinals were practically in their hands.

But even then, it wasn't quite enough to completely banish the niggling question from his mind.

Álvaro was aware, intellectually, that the normal thing to do at this point would probably be to let it go. But he couldn't help having a naturally curious personality, and —

The thing was, if Raúl wasn't into guys, had he started doing this because he thought Álvaro wanted to? Álvaro did, obviously, but only if Raúl did, too. He didn't need a pity fuck from his best friend.

The other question, the one that lurked uncomfortably beyond what he allowed himself to think about, was that if Raúl was right about Álvaro starting it all in the first place, why he had.

The thing about that one was that he thought he knew the answer.

Avoidance wasn't healthy, blah blah blah whatever. The truth was, Álvaro had a Champions' League quarterfinal match to think about. After the first leg it was practically a formality — but that didn't mean it meant any less to Álvaro when the match ended and he'd played ninety minutes and they hadn't let in a goal and they'd won. Then the results from the Ukraine came through, and for the next two weeks Álvaro practically had an obligation to forget about everything that didn't have to do with FC Barcelona and their imminent demise.

The first clash, the league match, was only four days later. He'd heard people saying it didn't count for anything: the fuck it didn't. Every time they played Barcelona it counted, and the league _wasn't fucking over yet_.

They were going to win. They had to. He could feel it.

That was until Álvaro heard the crowd roar and looked up from the bench in time to see Raúl clothesline David Villa inside the fucking box.

Álvaro's reactions crashed into each other too quickly to separate: a flash of feral satisfaction, immediately overwhelmed by dumbstruck and incredulous anger, because what the hell had Raúl been thinking _inside the box?_ Even as he thought it, the red card went up, glowing incongruously under the lights, and on its heels the call for a direct penalty.

So they were screwed. Álvaro swore aloud, before he could stop himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mourinho laughing, in a terrifying way; on the field Iker was just standing still, hands on his hips. Then Álvaro's attention was caught by Raúl coming off the field, shaking his head, and Álvaro didn't need to see inside his head to know the anger radiating from his hunched shoulders and jerky stride was directed at least as much at himself as at the call.

And there was something else: the urge to go over and shake Raúl by the shoulders and tell him it was going to be all right, they were going to take care of it, all of them.

He tried to catch Raúl's eye. But Raúl ignored them all, stalked right past the bench and down the steps to the tunnel. Álvaro couldn't help looking after him. He knew what it felt like, he wished —

He had to look back to the field. Everyone was lining up for the kick. Messi took it, and of course it went in, and there it was, they were down by one.

Mourinho gestured at Karanka, who turned to him and said, "Álvaro, suit up."

He shut it all out of his mind. He had to. He had to shut out everything except the fight, except the sharp narrow rectangle of bright green grass, until Ronaldo's penalty arrowed past Valdes and they were equal, and nine minutes later the whistle blew.

Like switching from black and white to color, everything else came back all at once. The crowd was roaring; he'd never heard that kind of ovation at the Bernabéu for a draw. _He_ wasn't happy with it — but he shoved that all aside. There was something else on his mind now.

But by the time he got to the dressing room, Raúl was already gone.

* * *

Álvaro rang the doorbell, then rang it again, then leaned on it until he could hear, muffled, the incessant _clang-clang-clang-clang-clang_ that he knew drove Raúl crazy.

It didn't seem to be working this time, though. "Raúl," he hollered, after a couple minutes with no response. "Come on, Raúl. I know you're in there."

He heard something that might have been footsteps in the hall and banged on the door with renewed enthusiasm. "Open the fucking door, Albiol!"

The door flew open. Raúl wasn't smiling, which was unusual enough; he looked furious. "Done sulking?" Álvaro said deliberately, and for a minute he thought Raúl was going to hit him.

Instead he gave an angry growl and stalked away, though he didn't actually slam the door in Álvaro's face. Álvaro shoved inside and followed him. "So you fucked up. So what. So has everyone."

Raúl ignored him.

Álvaro persisted. "There's nothing you can do about it, okay? We got a draw anyway, and we're going to beat the crap out of them in the final, so get over i— "

Raúl whirled around, eyes blazing, and suddenly he was right in front of Álvaro, looming over him as his hands clamped on Álvaro's shoulders and he shoved Álvaro against the wall.

That was okay with Álvaro. He fisted both hands in Raúl's hair and yanked; Raúl's head came down and he kissed Álvaro savagely. It _hurt_ , all teeth and anger; Álvaro thought his lip was bleeding. But he kissed back just as hard, pulling at Raúl's hair as Raúl gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

When Raúl finally let him go, it was only for them to push and pull each other in the direction of the bedroom. Álvaro went down first and yanked Raúl with him; Raúl's head slammed back against the headboard and he cursed. Then they were rolling over in a tangle of groping hands until Raúl came out on top, of course, bringing his full weight to bear down on Álvaro. Neither of them was interested in wasting time: Raúl was already undoing his jeans with one hand — the other remained clamped on Álvaro's shoulder — even as he kissed Álvaro, or Álvaro kissed him; Álvaro was trying to wriggle out of his own without unwrapping his leg from around Raúl. As he fumbled, Raúl's hands met his and helped him yank them the rest of the way off. A detached part of Álvaro's mind registered yet another kink he hadn't been aware of. Then his shirt was gone too, then Álvaro was biting his lip and swearing aloud as beside his head the tendons on Raúl's arms stood out.

It burned, in a good way. He rode it out, adjusting to Raúl's rhythm, until he could push back. Raúl was panting, teeth bared, sweat dripping from his forehead to Álvaro's neck. "That the best you can do?" Álvaro said — gasped — and Raúl made a deep angry noise and thrust harder. Álvaro grunted with satisfaction and dug his nails into Raúl's back, slippery with sweat. The pounding behind his eyes echoed Raúl's hips slamming into him, and the agonizing throb pulsing through his body. Someone made a rough needy sound; a second later Álvaro realized distantly it was himself. He couldn't think, couldn't take it any more — Just as he thought that, Raúl came first, with a shudder and a groan, arms trembling with strain. That was the final straw; Álvaro followed seconds later, listening almost in surprise to the hoarse sound he didn't even recognize emerging from his throat, and as he collapsed against the sheets, he was distantly aware of Raúl doing the same, beside him.

* * *

For a while — a few minutes, at least — Álvaro just lay there, breathing hard, and waited for his higher brain functions to reengage. When they did, at least enough for him to attempt complete thoughts again, he pushed himself upright.

Raúl's head was buried in the pillow; tufts of black hair stuck up all over. There was a line of angry red scratches down his back.

Álvaro reached out and smacked the back of Raúl's head, lightly; then, after a moment of hesitation, let his hand drop to rest on the back of Raúl's neck. "Feel better?"

Raúl made a muffled, unintelligible sound.

"I can't hear you," Álvaro said.

Raúl turned his head a little, though not far enough for Álvaro to see his face. "Maybe," he mumbled.

Álvaro absently petted along Raúl's neck, burying his fingers in Raúl's hair and releasing to stroke down to the top of his spine.

Eventually Raúl turned his head a little more, so Álvaro could see one side of his face, and said, "It's a _final_."

"I know," Álvaro said.

"I wanted to play it at home."

"I know." Álvaro dug his fingers in and squeezed. Raúl's shoulders tensed and relaxed again, and then he said something else Álvaro couldn't make out. "What?"

Raúl's head turned all the way, though he still wasn't quite looking at Álvaro. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Álvaro said. "Villa can be a little bitch sometimes." He sighed. "Besides, the league's gone anyway. Might as well give yourself a break."

He didn't get why Raúl was looking at him like that. "What?" he said.

"I know it is," Raúl said. He was still looking at Álvaro weird.

Álvaro shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "So?"

"Nothing," Raúl said after a minute. He rolled over, finally — Álvaro's hand dropped to his shoulder — and let one arm fall over his eyes. He heaved a sigh. "This is why people call me stupid, huh. I know how the game goes. I should be over this already, right?"

Álvaro didn't answer because he was a little worried at his own reaction, which was a strong desire to kiss Raúl until he stopped sounding so upset. He didn't really feel like examining that, so instead he removed his hand and straightened up.

"Okay," he said, "you know what? Enough of this shit." Raúl's arm moved, and past the crook of his elbow one black eye peered at Álvaro. "Here's what we're going to do: we're going to get up, get out of the house, and go watch some mindless cinematic violence. Then we're going to come back here, get out the tequila, and you're going to screw me into the mattress again. Deal?"

Raúl had started to perk up as Álvaro went along; now he was just staring at Álvaro, mouth slightly open. Álvaro wondered if he needed to repeat himself. Then Raúl was grinning again, his usual Raúl grin, the big, dopey one that Álvaro knew better than his own. "Sure," he said. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"Of course it does," said Álvaro. "It's my idea. Now get up and take a shower." This time he smacked Raúl on the ass, and Raúl yelped. He got up, though, and on the way to the shower leaned over and cupped a hand around Álvaro's neck to pull him over for a thorough kiss.

Álvaro was okay with that, too.

He never did find out what Mourinho said to Raúl before their next training session. All Raúl told him, looking better already than the day before, was that he was going to Valencia, too. The days before the final telescoped: one moment they were going over the aftermath of the draw, then it was their last training session in Madrid, then they were on the plane — then suddenly they were there, in Valencia, and Mourinho was announcing the starting lineup, and they were in the dressing room, and in two minutes Álvaro was going to be starting a cup final against Barcelona.

Everything seemed to crystallize into a single narrow focus. Álvaro took a deep breath and got ready to move.

There was a hand gripping his shoulder. "Hey," a familiar voice said in his ear. Álvaro looked over his shoulder.

"You better win this one," Raúl said.

"Don't worry," said Álvaro. "We will."

* * *

As it turned out, they did.

* * *

It all blurred together: the field, the locker room, the flight back. Álvaro lost his voice after about five minutes, from yelling. There were cameras everywhere, flashing in his face; he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much or so hard. Then there was the bus ride and suddenly Cibeles, lit up with neon white light: glowing.

In the ebb and flow of the celebrations he kept losing Raúl and then colliding with him again. People kept handing him drinks and cameras and things to sign; he posed for a thousand different pictures, grinning so hard his face hurt. At one point Esteban draped a flag over his shoulders, though it slipped off minutes later. A few minutes later, he found Esteban and Raúl together and put the flag around Raúl's shoulders for another photo.

Announcements — he barely heard what. Indiscriminate cheering. Iker with the flag, kissing her cheek. What time was it — four? five? Leaving now, trailed by television crews, spotlights, microphones, and being shepherded back to the bus, back to the training grounds, and it was over, for official purposes. But not for Álvaro.

The club had drivers ready for everyone, foresight the tiny part of Álvaro's mind capable of detachment thought was probably a smart move. The rest of him was looking for someone.

There he was. Álvaro grabbed Raúl's sleeve. "Come with me," he said, so Raúl did.

He had the hazy idea that because there was a driver it probably wouldn't be a good idea to grope Raúl in the back seat. So instead he waited until they were on his own front step, fumbling with the mysteriously stubborn lock, trying not too make too much noise with their fits of stifled laughter. Raúl batted his hand away, pretending to look affronted, then worked a hand under Álvaro's shirt as soon as Álvaro turned back to peer at his keys.

Inside, he didn't really think about where he was going until he found himself collapsing on the bed, arms and legs going every which way. Raúl flopped down next to him. The high of adrenaline and victory was slowly coming down, replaced by a happy bubbling euphoria. Álvaro still couldn't stop smiling.

He heard someone's voice humming something. The tune sounded familiar. After a minute, he realized the voice was his own.

" _Campeones, campeones...._ " Raúl was singing along under his breath, hoarse and badly out of tune but with the smile clear in his voice.

Álvaro stopped himself. "No, no, wait. This one's better." He cleared his throat and tried for the club hymn.

They managed to get through the chorus before Raúl stumbled on the verse and dissolved into laughter. It was probably because he wasn't a canterano. Álvaro generously decided to forgive him.

He said as much. Raúl said, looking solemn, "I bet a canterano would never have dropped the cup."

Álvaro rolled over and buried his cackles of delight in a pillow. "He's never going to be able to forget that," he said. "Never, never, never."

"Me neither," Raúl said, then dreamily, "Or Villa's face."

"You're welcome," Álvaro said magnanimously. He had thought of Raúl for a split second, as he yanked Villa off the ground, Raúl and —

Even under the lingering influence of alcohol, or maybe because of it, it unfolded before him in a glorious equation of genius and he had to fight not to ruin it by laughing again. Instead he put on his most serious expression and said, "See, my plan worked."

Raúl made a curious noise.

"Tips," Álvaro said. "From Silva. For the Clásico."

There was a moment of silence, before Raúl started to laugh so hard he actually fell over on his side. Álvaro let his own fit of laughter overtake him, almost until he cried. Raúl was _giggling_ , practically, which made Álvaro laugh even harder. He was still laughing when Raúl crawled over and kissed him.

They were both ridiculously drunk. If Álvaro were more sober he would probably be wondering how they were managing it at all. But he was wondering if he'd wonder it, so did that count? Raúl's tongue was on his collarbone. Álvaro wrapped his hand around Raúl's neck.

It was neither very drawn out nor very heavy on finesse, but it didn't matter. The hazy inebriated glow of satisfaction made everything about Raúl seem extra nice. Judging by the happy noises Raúl was making, he felt okay too. Álvaro came half sprawled across Raúl's chest as Raúl's hand held him in place for a sloppy kiss. It was a few moments before he moved over and settled back against the bed contentedly.

"Congratulations to us," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Congratulations to us," Raúl repeated muzzily, then flopped a heavy arm over Álvaro's waist and curled his head against Álvaro's shoulder and went to sleep. Álvaro wriggled until he was comfortable, and seconds later did the same.

* * *

In retrospect, Álvaro wished the season could have ended there. But they'd all been hungry for the next match, riding higher on confidence than since last October and bristling with anticipation. There was a hectic buzz to training, any time the team was together.

It made the matches, in the end, all the worse.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started to go wrong, when he started to sense the onset of a gut feeling he hated: that the end was coming down the line at them and there was nothing they could do about it, that no matter how hard they fought it just wouldn't be enough. But by the end of the first leg they were down two to nothing and they should have done better and it had been a miserable, awful game.

Álvaro didn't play the Zaragoza match. He didn't know if that made it better or worse. It was too late, it didn't matter, except it always mattered. It _always_ mattered.

He didn't know if he'd play the next leg, either, but he did. For all the good it did. Even his anger at the disallowed goal was blunted by something like inevitability. For a moment, when Marcelo scored, it seemed like they might have a chance, and he kept fighting, because it wasn't over, it _wasn't_ over — and then it was, and he had nothing left to show for it but a blend of sweat and anger and bitter acidic frustration.

He didn't know what to say afterward. None of them did: they all sat in the dressing room, silent, staring at the floor, or at each other.

After a while, some of the others started to get up, Marcelo and Jerzy and Leon and the Germans. Álvaro didn't move. Neither, next to him, did Raúl.

They sat on the bench, side by side, for a long time. Finally Raúl nudged Álvaro with an elbow and got to his feet. He still didn't say anything; he just looked down at Álvaro and jerked his head toward the door and Álvaro got up and followed him out.

It didn't matter how late it was: they weren't staying in Barcelona that night. The next thing Álvaro knew he was standing in the parking area, looking blankly down at his car. He got inside and wrapped both hands around the steering wheel, clenching his grip until his knuckles went white, and just stared down at it.

Then the passenger door opened and Raúl slid in.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."

* * *

It wasn't until Álvaro was halfway back to his house that what Raúl had said sunk in. He shot a look sideways at the passenger seat, involuntarily, but Raúl didn't notice; he was slumped in the seat, staring out the window.

They pulled in and Raúl trailed him into the house. Álvaro didn't know what to do so he tossed his keys on the counter and headed in the direction of the couch on autopilot, and Raúl followed. After a minute in which they both stared at nothing in dull silence, Raúl said, "Hey. Come here."

Before Álvaro could react, Raúl reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Álvaro held out for a minute — then he gave in and slumped against Raúl's shoulder.

"This sucks," he said.

Raúl rested his chin on top of Álvaro's head. "Yeah," he said. "I know it does."

Álvaro wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, in shared silence. After a while, Raúl nudged at him and Álvaro tipped his head up. They made out for a while, slowly, nothing more. It was — strangely comforting. Raúl wasn't trying to distract him or anything stupid like that; he knew how Álvaro felt. It was a joint thing, it was just right, it was just what he wanted and —

Maybe it was the disappointment, maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that they'd just handed a fourth European title to Barcelona and he just didn't fucking care any more. Or maybe it was just that everything he'd been pushing back since before this whole Clásico clusterfuck finally refused to be ignored any longer and Raúl's big warm hands were stroking down his back and he just wanted to _know_.

Whatever it was, he pulled away and said, "Hey. Don't put me off this time, okay?"

Raúl's brows drew together. "Álvaro?" he said.

"Look," Álvaro said, crossing his arms, "I don't care what it is, whatever, just — give me an answer, will you?"

Raúl was frowning. "About what?"

Álvaro wanted to shake him. What did he mean, _about what_ , like Álvaro hadn't been trying to wring an answer out of him for the last four weeks. "What do you think? About you! Why me? Why — " he waved a hand between them — " _this?_ Come on, Raúl!"

Raúl was staring at him. Álvaro held his eyes — and just like that, the flare of anger drained away. He let out a long, heavy breath and said, aware he sounded tired and not caring any more, "I just want to know why."

Raúl didn't answer for a minute. He just kept looking at Álvaro, expression unreadable. Then he laughed under his breath, and shook his head.

"What?" Álvaro demanded, to cover the uncomfortable drop in his stomach.

"Because I _like you_ ," Raúl said, rolling his eyes. "Duh."

"You what?" Álvaro said after a minute.

Raúl laughed again, a little disbelievingly, but his smile was affectionate. It was having a weird effect on Álvaro's insides. "Come on, Álvaro," he said, ruffling Álvaro's hair; Álvaro was still too off balance to bat his hand away. "Did you seriously think it was anything else?"

When Álvaro didn't say anything, Raúl laughed again. "And they call me the dumb one," he said to the ceiling.

"Not while I'm around they don't," Álvaro said automatically, then almost flushed.

Raúl, thankfully, either didn't notice or had enough material already. "No, really," he said. "I thought you got that much at least. It's a good thing I'm around or we'd really be in trouble."

"Shut the fuck up," Álvaro muttered. Then, rallying, he said, "Come on, didn't you — " _care_ " — wonder? What I was thinking?"

"I didn't have to," Raúl said, like it was perfectly obvious. "I know."

For the second time in five minutes, Álvaro didn't know what to say.

"Oh," he said.

Raúl was looking unbearably smug. Álvaro narrowed his eyes. "You think you're so smart."

"Yup," Raúl said, grinning at him, so Álvaro kissed him after all.

A considerable time later, just when things were getting interesting, Raúl broke away and said, "So that's why you've been so prickly lately, huh?"

"Barcelona didn't fucking help," Álvaro muttered, instead of _Yes._

Raúl made a thoughtful noise. "You know we're going to have start reminding ourselves of their good points eventually," he said. "International duty's only a couple weeks away."

That didn't make Álvaro feel any better. "Great," he said — sniped — "so you can hang out with Silva and ignore everyone else while I'm stuck making nice with Villa and Busquets. Sounds great."

There was a resounding silence. So resounding that Álvaro looked up, in time to see every step in the slow progression of comprehension dawning across Raúl's face, accompanied by a wide, wide grin.

Raúl said, unable in any way to disguise his glee, "Are you _jealous?_ "

"No," Álvaro said. "Who in their right mind would be jealous over you?" He could feel — yet again — a slow flush spreading from his neck upwards. Fuck.

Raúl's grin was insufferable. "Don't worry," he said. "That was years ago."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Álvaro said, "and why the hell would I be worried." He pointedly wriggled away and fished his BlackBerry from his pocket. He should let his adoring populace know that he was still alive and that Madridistas didn't give up, ever.

"Álvaro," Raúl said, coaxingly.

Álvaro ignored him. Someone was tweeting about how he never answered them. He could reply, bring a little joy to the masses.

Raúl's arm curved over his back and a chin dug into his shoulder. "Álvaro," Raúl said in his ear. "Hey. You don't have anything to be insecure about. I promise."

Álvaro stiffened, then shot upright so fast he almost cracked his head against Raúl's jaw. "Excuse me? I am not — "

Then he saw that Raúl was grinning.

"Gotcha," Raúl said gleefully.

"Damn it," Álvaro swore as Raúl collapsed in a cackling heap. "Damn it, motherfucker, that doesn't count, that's just _cheating_."

"Because I was playing with your heart?" Raúl cooed, which made Álvaro's smack entirely justified. A brief scuffle ensued. Around the time Raúl's hand dug its way into Álvaro's back pocket and Álvaro's own got tangled up in Raúl's hair, Álvaro broke away to say, "Don't think I'm not going to make you pay for that. Some day when you least expect it."

Raúl peered at him. "Is that a nerd thing?"

"Fuck you," Álvaro said, which Raúl thought was hilarious, and then they were making out again, and overall, it hadn't been such a bad season.


End file.
